


Manage Me (I’m A Mess)

by missjulia



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Comeplay, Coming Untouched, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Spanking, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Voice Kink, dont be fooled it’s mostly voice/dirty talk, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-25 08:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30086553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missjulia/pseuds/missjulia
Summary: Quentin uses planners, notebooks and journals to keep his anxiety in check. One of these journals is less productive, but way more fun.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 42
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this is. I think I might make this multi chapter with them doing more scenes from the journal, so let me know what you think!
> 
> Title from Weightless by All Time Low.
> 
> Also this is inspired by basically every fic I’ve read by Butterfly, jessalae, mixtapestar, and RedBlazer, (and probably a few others) because I’m addicted to this dynamic that they’re all so good at writing.
> 
> Unbeta-ed.

It wasn’t a dream journal.

Or a sex journal, if there were such a thing.

Quentin knew that the best way to keep himself in check, handle his episodes, was to keep himself on a schedule. Class journal, day planner, food journal. Not in a counting calories way, but just a checklist to make sure he was eating and drinking water regularly. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, the occasional snack, the works.  
But the not-dream/sex journal was a little different. It wasn’t suggested by his therapist, like the other ones.

This one was just for him.

It was where he wrote down things he couldn’t say. Usually sex dreams, or particularly good fantasies. Occasionally it contained some boring mundane dreams that he tried to work out the meanings of. Mostly just things that made him feel good. Safe. Sweet. Taken care of. Probably some psycho-babble bullshit about feeling like he had to keep such a tight control on his emotions that his subconscious looked for someone else to take the reins. 

It wasn’t that he was unsatisfied or anything.

Eliot fucked him so good, all the time, whenever he wanted it, and it was fucking phenomenal.

But there were times like now, when he woke up hard and hot and aching for it, and he knew that if he went up to Eliot’s attic room, he would take care of him and make him feel absolutely incredible.

And as much as he wanted to, sometimes it was so good to stay in that place in his head, where anything goes and he could tell Eliot every filthy fantasy he had and he would make them come true.

Like this one that had just woken him up from an unplanned 3pm nap. He had been tied up to Eliot’s bed frame, legs apart and arms over his head, and Eliot had walked in slow, predatory circles around him and had told him how good he looked. He had climbed up on the bed to lean in close and lick his neck, whisper in his ear.

He had stood at the head of the bed and reached over with one of his stupidly long arms and had twined his fist in Quentin’s hair and yanked it back while Quentin had rocked his hips, rutting against nothing, nearly crying with want.

Eliot had leaned over, licked up those sweet little tears and told him how good he was being, so sweet and displayed and open for him, told him how much he couldn’t wait to get his hands all over him, told him he just had to wait a little bit longer and then Eliot would touch him, would drive him crazy and make him come. All he had to do was wait and beg and promise to be such a good, sweet boy for him.

Quentin sits at his little desk now, writing down everything that he remembers, in excruciating detail, shivering at the memory of how he felt in the dream, hot and flushed with lust and embarrassment.

His one hand was clutching the edge of the desk, white knuckled as he shifted in his seat, rocking back and forth just to feel the rhythm of his hips, seeking what he wanted.

“Jesus, babe, what’s got you all worked up?” It’s Eliot’s voice from the doorway behind him, and Quentin feels like he might jump out of his skin.

He slams the notebook closed, slips it under his day planner, takes a deep breath, and turns his head.

“You scared me!” He says, smiling and giving an awkward little wave of his hand.

Eliot is there, perfectly put together as always, in gray slacks and a violet shirt, a midnight blue vest with matching purple swirls. He looks regal and gorgeous. Quentin chances a look at his face, and he’s smiling in greeting.

“Sorry, Q. I didn’t mean to scare you. I knocked on the doorframe, but you didn’t seem to hear me.” He shrugs by way of explanation. “But what are you doing? You look like you just ran a marathon.”

“Oh! Nothing. Had a bad dream.” Quentin lies nervously.

“Are you okay?” Eliot asks, concern filling his eyes.

“Yeah, El, I’m fine. Nothing too scary, just the classic failing-all-your-classes kind of dream.” Quentin reassures him.

“Uh-huh. And that’s why you jumped out of bed to start studying?” Eliot’s voice is skeptical, as he crosses the room towards him.

“Yeah! Wouldn’t you?” Quentin knows this is a shoddy attempt at redirecting the conversation, but it’s the best he can come up with on short notice.

“Q, why are you lying to me? Is something wrong?” Eliot is so kind, so sweet. Quentin doesn’t want to lie to him, but he can’t explain.

“No, Eliot, everything’s fine. I promise.” Quentin says. He turns and pulls Eliot down for a kiss. “Come on, it’s Saturday. Don’t you have a party to be preparing for?”

“Well, it’s not one of the more legendary soirées that I’m known for, but there will be guests, and there will be drinks.” Eliot gives him a sardonic smile.

“Sounds like an Eliot Waugh soirée to me.” Quentin grins at him.

“It’s not a true Eliot Waugh soirée unless you’re there. So, you’re gonna come down, right? You’re not just gonna hide up here and study, are you?” Eliot makes an exaggerated pout.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. I promise.” Quentin kisses him again.

“Not like that, you’re not. You have to get in the shower first.”

Quentin scoots out his chair, stands, and makes his way to the closet for a towel.

“Anything for you and your parties.” Quentin gives a long fake sigh.

————————

As soon as he closes the bathroom door behind him, Quentin lets out a real sigh.

He feels sort of melancholy as he strips and gets under the hot shower spray. He doesn’t want to lie or keep anything from Eliot. And he’s happy, perfectly satisfied with his gorgeous boyfriend and his gorgeous hands, and his gorgeous mouth and his gorgeous dick.

The sex is always top notch and Eliot has made him come so hard that it felt like he would pass out.

Still.

Sometimes, even when he’s not dreaming, when he’s totally awake in the dark with his hand on his cock, he can’t help what pops unbidden into his head.

Still Eliot, still gorgeous, but just so powerful. Taking him, ordering him, choking him, spanking him, _owning him._

No.

He can’t think about this now, can’t get hard in the shower with Eliot waiting on the other side of the door to drag him to the party.

Quentin shakes himself a little, and focuses on washing his body, his hair. Putting some of Eliot’s thick spicy-smelling conditioner in his hair and rinsing quickly.

He steps out of the shower, wraps himself in a towel and brushes his teeth for the second time that day.

He opens the bathroom door and thinks he might stop breathing.

There’s Eliot, stretched out languidly on the bed, up on one elbow with one of his legs neatly tucked over the other. With a small blue notebook open on the bed in front of him.  
His not-dream-or-sex journal.

Quentin slams the bathroom door closed before Eliot can even look at him.

He stands completely still in the bathroom for more than five minutes straight, trying to effectively get air to his panicked brain.

Finally, after staving off his panic attack and taking a few more deep breaths, he opens the door.

Eliot is still lying on the bed, this time prepared for him, looking right at the door as it opens, a lazy grin on his face.

Quentin drops his gaze to the ground, cheeks burning, and he can’t help himself from rambling.

“Listen, Eliot. That’s not anything. It’s just stupid and it doesn’t mean anything and I love you. I’m happy and so so pleased and satisfied in our relationship. You know. Sex life. Whatever. It’s great and I don’t want you to think that it’s not cause of that stupid notebook, so please please just pretend that you never saw it and we can go down to your party.” The words come out in a strangled rush and Quentin feels like he might choke on his tongue the whole time he speaks.

“Pretend I never saw it?” Eliot’s voice, unimpressed and skeptical. Quentin is still staring at the floor, and his tone knifes through him.

“Oh, _baby_. Not on your life.” His voice is different now, steely and hot. Quentin feels too warm, and he doesn’t think it’s from the steam wafting out from the bathroom.

“Look at me, Quentin.” Eliot says, no room for argument.

Something twists, hot and liquid in Quentin’s stomach as he finally tilts his head back up to take in Eliot, still draped gracefully across Quentin’s unmade bed.

“That’s it.” Eliot says encouragingly. “So, what _is_ this thrilling little novel?” Eliot asks, tapping the notebook with two fingers, looking patient and unbothered.

“I told you, it’s nothing. Just a dream journal. You know. You wake up and write down everything you remember from your dream?” Quentin is still talking too fast, feeling like maybe the quicker this conversation is over, the quicker they can pretend it never happened and Quentin can burn that notebook.

“I see.” Eliot says, still not giving anything away with his eyes or his tone. “And they so happen to be about me?”

“No! Didn't you see the one from yesterday? About falling down an elevator shaft? Or three nights ago when I dreamt that we all turned back into geese? Or last week? You know, I dreamt about suddenly owning a pet store but it only sold weasels? No idea what the fuck that meant. But they’re just dreams. Weird stuff. Nonsense.” Quentin chuckles nervously, but he can feel the awkward little smile on his face that will just not leave.

“Okay, but what about this one, where apparently I made you kneel, naked on the floor at the foot of the bed until you begged for me to touch you?” Eliot lets his voice go husky and deep, and Quentin wants to tell him to _shut up_ but he can’t speak. Eliot flips a few pages back in the notebook.

“Or the one where I put you on your knees and had you suck my cock so slowly, and made you beg for me to come in your mouth? Or this one where I spanked your ass red and told you how _’I couldn’t wait to make you cry so pretty for me._ ’” Eliot is still speaking in the same voice and Quentin realizes that sometime during Eliot’s little speech, Quentin had let his eyes close and had started shaking.

“Jesus, Q.” Eliot whispers, and Quentin opens his eyes hesitantly. “Is that what you want? Would you like that?”

“Eliot, I told you! They’re just dreams, you can’t control them. I love you, I love what we do, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. You know that!” Quentin can’t look him in the face, can barely move.

“How sweet. Yet not an answer to my question.” Eliot’s voice is still hot, but gently mocking now. “Come on, baby. Tell me. You want me to boss you around? Tell you what to do? Be a little rough with you?” Eliot barely knows what he’s saying, all he knows is that he will say anything to watch Quentin’s blush bloom hotter, spreading over his neck and chest. He can’t believe that he’s getting this lucky. “Pull your hair and smack your ass, maybe tie you up and edge you until you forget your own name? Tell you how good you are, how gorgeous, when you beg for me, with my fingers down your throat and you sitting on my lap, grinding and whining for me to let you rut against me until you come? Treat you like a pet, a sweet kept boy, pretty and helpless, always ready to beg for me?” 

Quentin can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move, and is suddenly all too aware that he’s still standing in the bathroom doorframe wrapped in a towel.

“Mmm.” Quentin was shocked to hear a tortured moan come from between his own traitorous lips.

“Is that a yes? I wanna hear you say it.” Eliot is sitting up now, pushing himself so his legs are hanging over the edge of the bed, feet on the floor.

Quentin locks his eyes on the ground, at a spot about an inch or two in front of Eliot’s feet, in their soft black socks. “Yes.” He whispers, barely audible.

“Okay.” Eliot says, in a completely different voice. Still warm with affection, but no longer dripping with heat and husky desire.

Eliot stands, crosses the room to where Quentin is still trembling, having thrown up a hand to steady himself against the doorframe to keep his knees from buckling. He leans down,and Quentin thinks he means to kiss him, and leans up to meet him. Eliot passes his mouth though, dropping his head to brush a tease of a kiss against Quentin’s collarbone, catching his hands in the air when they immediately go to wrap around Eliot’s shoulders.

“We’ll discuss all of this and more after the party, baby. For now, get dressed. I’ll see you down there.” And then Eliot was letting him go, sweeping out of the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Quentin standing there, feeling sluggish, like his brain was a million miles behind everything that had just happened.

He pulls himself together and gets dressed, slightly nicer than he usually would for a regular Saturday night party. But this is Eliot. Eliot, who found his stupid sex diary. Eliot, who hadn’t run screaming from the room. Eliot, who seemed interested and almost unsurprised when he asked about it. Eliot, who wanted to talk after the party.

Jesus.

Quentin looks in the mirror, sighs at his reflection, then heads out of the room and down the stairs. It was only as he passed his desk on the way out of the room that he noticed the little blue notebook was gone.

——————————

The party wasn’t quite in full swing when he got downstairs, but there was music on and some people dancing, and Eliot, looking incredible and unflappable behind the bar, mixing drinks and smiling at everyone and throwing a wink at the girl standing in front of him, giving him her all by tossing her shiny blonde hair and looking up at him from under her lashes.

Eliot laughed at something she said, leaned in to flirt back into her ear, and sent her on her way with her drink, something pretty and pink and orange.

Quentin hung back, unable to go get a drink for himself, in spite of his growing thirst while watching Eliot continue to mix drinks and play to his adoring audience, men and women alike, who flirted and smiled and giggled at him.

He wasn’t usually the jealous type, especially because he knew that Eliot was just Eliot. Hot and sweet and fun, just this force of energy that brought life and joy to everyone around him. 

But today, the thought that maybe he would rather be with someone who wasn’t such a fucking loser was making him feel sort of small and sad.

He stays towards the living room area, hunched on the couch, smiling and waving and making polite conversation, a perfectly respectable party guest.

At least until Margo saunters in, in her 4 inch heels and a short little red dress that never failed to turn heads, even Quentin’s.

She drops gracefully onto the couch next to him, and he turns toward her, smiling again, until he sees the look on her face. It’s serious, foreboding, and he sighs at her petulantly.

“What now, Margo?” His voice is more exhausted than he meant it to be.

“What did you do?” She asks, looking him in the eye, not unkind, but not as friendly as she usually is to him.

“Nothing! I didn’t do anything. Did he say I did something to him?” Quentin asks, full of concern, worried that Eliot’s earlier attitude had just been him playing at stoicism, that he had actually hurt his feelings.

“So this is about Eliot?” Margo is looking at him shrewdly, discerning. “I was referring to your tragic puppy pose here in the corner of the couch.”

Quentin blows out another sigh, annoyed that he had given himself away.

“Out with it, Q, what did you do?” Margo is smiling at him, but somehow it doesn’t feel mocking, it feels kind of nice.

“He found a notebook I had.” Quentin starts, flushed red from his ears to his cheeks to his throat.

“A notebook?” Margo asks skeptically. “Like a diary?” Her tone is way more interested now.

“I mean...Kinda. It had dreams in it.” Quentin can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

“Dreams?” Margo sounds incredulous. “You have your panties in a twist because of a dream journal?”

“They’re not in a twist. And they’re not just regular dreams! They’re embarrassing. You know, other types of dreams.” Quentin mutters while staring at the ceiling.

“Oh my god!” Margo is cackling now and Quentin wants to disappear into the floor.

“Eliot found your secret sex journal about how you want him to fuck you. Right?” Margo is still laughing softly and Quentin can’t help but glare at her.

“I’ll take that as a yes. So, what’s the problem? That sounds perfect for you, he finds out what you want, you don’t have to embarrass yourself by telling him. Win win, right?” Margo sounds genuinely curious, as though she really doesn’t see how this could backfire.

“Okay. You know, I see how that would make sense, but what if he doesn’t like any of the things that I thought about or dreamt about? What if he thinks it’s stupid, or thinks I’m like a weird bad pervert or something? What if I make a fool out of myself and I lose him?” Quentin is very close to having a very real panic attack at the thought, and he can’t even focus on it because he is too busy being annoyed with himself about how stupid this whole thing is.

“Come on, Q. Do you really think that there’s anything you could want that he wouldn’t give to you?” Margo asks, her voice softening a little.

“Margo, you know it’s not that simple. I don’t want him to do anything just because I like it. I want him to want it. You know as well as I do that the best part of a fantasy is the thought that the other person is getting off on it. And I don’t want him to feel like he’s not enough just how he is. He’s perfect.” Quentin is babbling again and he can’t really stop himself.

“Ugh, Q, I’m gonna stop you there before you make me vomit. First of all, I’m pretty sure that unless you’re having fantasies that are more snuff films than wet dreams, you’re fine.” Quentin makes a horrified face at that and Margo laughs again. “Second of all, I guarantee that most things you put in your naughty little sex diary are things that he’s either already done or has wanted to do.”

Quentin is still frowning, wishing that he could believe all of that. But even what Eliot had seemed to have already read in his notebook was pretty tame compared to the rest of it. It just doesn’t seem possible that Eliot would be interested in any of the things that Quentin had thought about.

Margo is still watching him carefully.

“Can I ask you why you started a sex journal in the first place?” Margo’s voice is measured, she isn’t laughing at him anymore.

“It’s hard to explain. My therapist suggested keeping a day planner or a notebook to keep track of important things. Like homework or appointments. She also suggested a gratitude journal to try to lift my spirits. You know, writing down something that you’re thankful for every day. I couldn’t do it without feeling like a sad Pinterest mom. So I started writing down dreams. It started with relatively mundane dreams, and I was just using it to practice organizing my thoughts and trying to figure out what they mean. And then I met Eliot, the dreams got a little less mundane and a little more adult, and writing them out became really fun. And having an activity to do right when I wake up makes it a little easier to get out of bed and not stay there all day long on a bad day.” Quentin realizes that he has been talking for far too long, but Margo still looks interested and not like she has completely tuned him out.

“So, you know I don’t do the feelings thing because it feels like there are needles in my eyeballs, so I’m only gonna say this once. It sounds like the journal is helping you. You should keep doing it. And just because you thought about something or dreamt about something doesn’t mean you have to do it. I still think that Eliot probably found that notebook and thought it was Christmas. But if it feels like him finding it is going to ruin a legitimately helpful routine that you have for yourself, then you need to talk to him about that. He loves you. He doesn’t want you to run around worrying. He especially doesn’t want you scaring yourself into thinking he’ll leave you because you had a naughty dream about him.” Quentin is touched, in spite of himself, at Margo’s words. 

They were friends, sure, but Margo doesn’t get into the touchy feely kinds of conversations that usually come with a friendship. This felt different, comforting and kind.

“Thanks, Margo. That was really sweet of you to say.” Quentin chuckles at her, amused by the way her eyes narrow at the word “sweet.” 

“There’s only one problem with what you just said. I can’t keep doing the journal. Eliot took it after he found it.” Quentin feels nervous again just thinking about it.

Margo is laughing again.

“That just means he wants you to ask for it back, Q.”

Quentin feels his stomach drop. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“You could always just buy another notebook. Start over. But I’m telling you, he wants to give it back to you. He just wants to see you sweat a little before he does.” Margo is smirking up at him, clearly done with the feelings part of the talk and now content to make fun of him some more. It doesn’t feel malicious though, it’s friendly and easy.

Quentin chances another look at the bar, expecting to see Eliot still flirting, catering to the needs of the guests with practiced efficiency. Eliot isn’t flirting. He’s staring at Quentin with a hungry smile that Quentin hasn’t seen before, cocktail shaker in hand and three glasses lined up on the bar in front of him.

Quentin feels his face heat instantly and drops his gaze back to Margo’s face. She had turned to look at Eliot too, and was now looking back at Quentin with that infuriatingly knowing smile.

“Yeah, Q. He looks very horrified. I think he’s planning how he’s gonna dump you right now.”

“Shut up, Margo.” Quentin deadpans, feeling impossibly nervous, even more so than when he thought Eliot really was horrified.

Quentin feels caught, stuck between rolling his eyes at Margo and staring at Eliot, so he drops his gaze to his hands in his lap and just sits there for a moment, thinking. 

In the beginning he had been worried about what would happen if Eliot wasn’t into this. Now he can’t stop thinking about what would happen if he was.

Quentin is sitting there, lost in his thoughts and wondering if he should have ever started keeping the stupid notebook in the first place when he realizes that Eliot is standing right there, next to where Margo is sitting on the couch.

He has three glasses full of something pink and orange and swirly, the same drink he had made for the pretty blonde girl at the bar, and is already handing one off to Margo, who looks expectant.

Eliot holds out the second glass to Quentin and he takes it gingerly, afraid that the combination of his nerves and Eliot’s proximity will end with him dropping the glass and then he can never come to another party again.

“El, you need to talk to your boy before he has a panic attack or Niffins out. Tell him that he hasn’t scared you off, cause he nearly burst into tears and tried to tell me that you were going to leave him.” Margo drawls, the laughter in her voice and eyes is genuine, even if it doesn’t quite go with her words.

Eliot’s eyes go wide and Quentin’s face burns again.

“Thank you, Margo.” Quentin says irritably, looking back down, this time at the drink in his hand.

He takes a sip, and of course it’s delicious, sweet and fruity without being too cloying or strong. He closes his eyes and appreciates it for a moment, until he feels Eliot’s big, sure hand wrap around his own wrist.

“Bambi, we have to go.” Eliot says, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Don’t let Todd near my bar.” He hisses in her ear before tightening his grip on Quentin’s wrist.

Quentin snaps his eyes open to glance at Eliot’s face, serious and demanding.

“Come here.” Eliot says, and even though Quentin knows they’re just going to go have that big talk that Eliot had warned about, he can’t help the little spark of excitement that catches in his chest at the command.

Eliot pulls firmly on his wrist, and Quentin stands and follows him, miraculously not tripping as he attempts to suck down his whole drink before they get up the stairs and into Eliot’s room.

They’re hardly even in the room when Eliot turns around and backs Quentin into the door until it clicks softly behind them. He wraps both hands in Quentin’s hair and drags their mouths together, hot and insistent, and Quentin is too stunned to do anything but let Eliot take his mouth. Eliot licks across Quentin’s lower lip, and Quentin opens his mouth to gasp, and Eliot licks into his mouth, chasing his tongue and making a low sound in his throat.

Quentin kisses back as good as he gets as soon as he can make his mouth move. He wraps his arms around Eliot’s shoulders, going up on tiptoe to press tighter to his body, and Eliot smiles against his mouth.

Eliot pulls back a moment later, and Quentin feels dazed, rooted to the spot and unable to speak.

“So, before any of this goes any further, I need you to do me a favor.” Eliot says, smiling down at Quentin.

Quentin looks up at him curiously, but doesn’t say anything.

“Tell me why you keep a journal like that.” Eliot says, gently but in a tone that books no argument.

Quentin rolls his eyes.

“I just finished explaining this to Margo. Maybe you could just ask her?” Quentin asks hopefully.

“And deprive myself of the adorable show you’re going to give me while you stammer out an explanation?” Eliot is still smiling and Quentin is resisting the urge to stare at him. “Not a chance.”

Quentin blows out a sigh.

“It was a suggestion from my therapist, originally. Not to keep a log of _those_ kinds of dreams specifically, but she wanted me to keep planners and things, so I got into the habit of writing out my dreams when I woke up. It was a way to practice making thoughts into cohesive sentences so that I could analyze them. In the beginning it was just regular stupid dream stuff. And then they started to change into, well- you know. But I never got out of the habit, and I wanted to know what the dreams meant. And I never meant for anyone to find it, especially you. I didn’t want you to be upset or think that I was unhappy or something like-”

Eliot leans close, cutting him off with another hungry kiss, and Quentin just lets himself be kissed.

“First of all,” Eliot whispers as he pulls back just an inch or two. “I need you to stop thinking that this is something that would upset me. Second of all, you want to know what the dreams mean? Because I can tell you that.” Eliot brings a hand up to Quentin’s chin, steadying his head to look directly into his eyes.

“Oh?” Quentin asks, breathless. “What do they mean?”

“They mean that you, my darling, are a sweet, gorgeous boy who wants nothing more than to be useful and loved.” Eliot starts, stroking Quentin’s cheek gently with his thumb.

“What?” Quentin looks nonplussed.

“You want to be of service. You want to help others, in whatever capacity you can. You want to make people feel good. You want to be cracked open and seen, really seen for who you are and what you want. You want to be recognized, told that you deserve to exist, that you deserve to take up space, that you deserve to be here and be seen and be you. You want someone to prove to you that they know you, that they love you and want you to be happy.” Eliot’s voice is soft, lulling and sweet, and Quentin didn’t even realize that his eyes had fallen closed until Eliot had leaned back in and brushed his lips so gently over his. 

Quentin can’t say anything yet, breathing too deeply to form words.

“You know what I think that you want most? More than anything else?” Eliot asks, still holding Quentin’s chin in his gentle hand.

“What?” Quentin whispers.

“You want to want. You want everything that you can get. You have spent your whole life worrying that you didn’t deserve things, that you were broken and wrong for all of the things that you loved and needed. You want someone to give you permission to truly long for something, and then give it to you.”

Quentin feels tears welling up in his eyes, but he doesn’t feel sad. He feels exposed, vulnerable, but under all of that is something that feels kind of like hope.

He looks up into Eliot’s eyes, feels a single tear slipping down his face as he does. Eliot’s thumb is there instantly, wiping it away.

“I can give that to you, my love. I can do that for you, I want to do that for you. Wanna know why?” Eliot kisses his forehead, the tip of his nose, both cheeks, his lips, in a chaste press of lips.

“Because you deserve it. You deserve everything you have ever wanted, and I want to give it to you.” Eliot whispers, and Quentin lets out a sound like a sob.

Eliot wraps his arms around him and pulls him in tight, no kisses, no heat, no wandering hands. Just holding him, making soothing noises into his hair and rubbing his hand in the hollow between his shoulder blades. Quentin realizes he’s crying, but can’t really understand or explain why.

He feels small, comforted and safe. He lets it make him brave, looks up at Eliot and gives him a watery smile.

“I love you, El. I am completely, totally, head-over-heels in love with you..” He says, his voice strong and steady. It’s not the first time that he’s said it in their relationship, but it’s the first time that he’s felt this sure, felt it in his bones that this is an eternal truth of his soul.

No matter what, for the rest of time, Quentin will love him. It’s a rule, a law, a promise, and an offering.

Eliot’s face lights up, and he kisses the tip of Quentin’s nose again. “I know, Q. I love you too. Does that mean that you agree with my analysis?” Eliot teases.

“I mean, I don’t know that I would describe it the way that you did. But I guess I can’t really say that you’re wrong.” Quentin gives a bashful little smile, and Eliot feels his heart clutch in his chest.

“Well, we could always go with theory number two.” Eliot shoots him a sly grin, and Quentin can’t tear his gaze away from his face.

“Which is?” Quentin asks, feeling brave.

“That you’re incredibly sexually repressed and you just want me to fulfill all of your kinky fantasies and to fuck you like I own you.” Eliot is staring into Quentin’s eyes, and Quentin chokes on his sharp intake of breath.

Eliot laughs at him, and Quentin can feel his face burning, partially at Eliot’s words and partially at not being able to breathe.

“Jesus, Eliot. You can’t just _talk_ like that.” Quentin says once he’s recovered.

“Oh, please, Q. You don’t have a leg to stand on anymore. I have a handy dandy list of ‘things that will make Quentin Coldwater insane with lust’ and talking dirty features on it very highly.” Eliot grins down at him. “And you wanna know what I think about theory number two? I can give you that too.”

Quentin feels his brain short circuit for a moment, leans in and buries his face against Eliot’s shoulder, too overwhelmed to look at him. Eliot wraps his arms around him, just holding him for another moment. He drops a kiss to the top of Quentin’s head and Quentin muffles a giggle in Eliot’s silky shirt.

“What’s so funny?” Eliot asks into his hair.

“Just this. This is a very sweet embrace, and it feels completely incongruous to everything you just said.” Quentin is still laughing softly.

“What, were you thinking I would tie you down and ravish you immediately?” Eliot is gently pushing Quentin’s shoulders, until he’s stepped back enough to look up at him.

Quentin’s blushing again, but he doesn’t feel quite as nervous or silly as before.

“I guess I just thought you would offer to indulge me in one of these ideas, just to get it done and over with.” Quentin says. Eliot can’t believe his ears. Quentin sounds so matter-of-fact, as though he has no idea how ridiculous that statement is.

“So, there’s a lot to unpack in that sentence. I have absolutely no intention of treating this as something to get _done and over with_. It’s supposed to be fun. And you might not think so, but I have dabbled in this kind of thing before.” Eliot smiles at Quentin, loving the way his eyes go wide and shocked.

“You have?” Quentin asks, a little breathless.

“Yes, baby.” Eliot’s eyes are twinkling with mischief. “And I enjoyed every second of it.”

“What have you done?” Quentin is burning with curiosity, wants to know every detail of how Eliot has maybe _dommed_ someone else.

“Almost everything in that hot little journal of yours.” Eliot says, and Quentin thinks that this can’t be real, he has to be back inside of one of his dreams.

“Quentin, are you still with me?” Eliot is laughing softly at Quentin, who looks a little dazed.

“Yes. Yep. I’m here.” Quentin says, stumbling over his words.

“But before I tell you all the dirty details, we have to establish some ground rules.” Eliot’s tone is a little more serious now, and Quentin rolls his eyes.

“Is this where we have the ‘safe, sane and consensual’ talk?” Quentin huffs.

“You’ve done some research, huh, baby? Look at you, showing off your bdsm jargon. But yes, this is where we have that talk.” Eliot says, watching Quentin’s face carefully. “This is also where I get to watch you blush and stammer and try not to come in your pants while you tell me what you want and I tell you what I’m going to give you.”

Eliot backs up, never taking his eyes from Quentin’s face as he presses up against the settee at the foot of his bed and sits down.

Sure enough, a gorgeous pink stain is spreading over Quentin’s cheeks and the tips of his ears go even darker.

“So, pretty baby, why don’t you come sit with me and tell me what you want from me?” Eliot coaxes, his voice gentle and light.

“El, come on. You read the stupid notebook. I just want you.” Quentin starts, unable to give voice to anything specific,but he takes a few steps on unsteady legs to plop down unceremoniously next to Eliot.

“Baby, you have me. You’ve had me since day one. But it seems like you have some pretty specific interests, and I want you to tell me all about them.” Eliot reassures him, leaning over and dropping soft kisses along the line of Quentin’s cheekbone.

“Hey, El?” Quentin asks, knowing it is totally unsexy to interrupt this hot little interrogation session they have going on, but he can’t help it.

“What is it, doll?” Eliot catches Quentin’s chin with a soft grip, tilting his head to look right at him. His voice is serious, subdued, and no longer projecting heated desire, and Quentin almost wants to cry at the loss.

“I just- I don’t want you to do anything just because I like it. I’m trying not to retreat into myself, because I love you and I don’t want to take advantage or make you feel bad or guilty or anything. I— I know this sounds stupid, but don’t do anything if you don’t like it or want to. I really really don’t want to feel like you’re doing me any favors.” Quentin lets the words tumble out, looking past Eliot’s ear at the wall behind him, feeling like he’s going to choke on the sudden lump in his throat, and he knows this is ridiculous. He can’t get teary eyed for the second time in fifteen minutes just because his boyfriend might give in to one of his filthy fantasies.

He realizes that Eliot hasn’t said anything, has just been watching his eyes and smiling, waiting for Quentin to look back at his face. He leans in, brushes his lips over Quentin’s, just barely a kiss.

“Was it true, what Margo said?” Eliot asks him, still serious and soft.

“Which part?” Quentin looks at him curiously.

“When she said you tried to tell her that I would leave you over this.” Eliot explains.

“I mean—kind of? I didn’t really think that would happen, but then I started thinking about it and how maybe it wasn’t fair to you. It’s not fair to put you in a position where now there’s all this pressure for you to do something or act a certain way. And I started to feel guilty, and Margo was being so nice to me and listening, and I just kind of spiraled.” Quentin shrugs, still looking embarrassed but not shying away from Eliot’s gaze.

“You just get so stuck in that pretty little head of yours, don’t you, my love?” Eliot asks, giving him another gentle kiss. “You’re allowed to have a fantasy. You’re allowed to have hundreds. And if there’s anything that you want that I don’t want to do, you have to trust that I’ll let you know. You said you did your research. What did your research tell you was the most important factor in all of this?”

“Trust.” Quentin says softly.

“Very good, baby.” Eliot gives him an appreciative smile. 

Quentin feels a little thrill rush through him at his praise, but otherwise feels content to just sit there with him, having this discussion that would’ve paralyzed him an hour ago.

“So you’ve gotta trust me to speak up for myself, and I have to be able to trust you to do the same. Can you do that for me? Can you tell me if something becomes too much or if it isn’t fun anymore?” Eliot is watching him cautiously.

“Yes.” Quentin answers, still a little too softly, but his voice is steady.

“Good. That’s step one of the talk, and you did so well.” Eliot leans in and gives him another kiss, this one a little more forceful, no tongue, but more pressure than the last two, and Quentin has to stop himself from kissing him back, hard.

“And I want you to know that no matter what I do with you, I’m doing it because I want to. I want you, baby, and there’s nothing I can think of that you could want that I wouldn’t want too. It’s not just that I want to make your fantasies come true, which is true, even if it sounds like a line, but hasn’t it occurred to you that I might have a fantasy or two too?” Eliot is still smiling at him, watching as Quentin worries his lower lip with his teeth.

“Do you?” Quentin asks breathlessly.

“Of course I do, darling. And they’re all about you.” Eliot drops his voice, hot and husky and Quentin feels like it’s suddenly too hot in Eliot’s room, where they’re pressed together on the small patterned settee.

“Will you tell me?” Quentin can’t help the desperate note in his voice, the way that he’s staring at Eliot’s mouth, that sweet, wicked smile that he can never get enough of.

“All in good time, my love. First we’ve gotta finish that talk.” Eliot watches Quentin as he rolls his eyes again.

“Wasn’t that it?” Quentin asks, tone sulky and eyes bright with agitation.

“No, Q, you can’t just say the words ‘safe, sane and consensual’ and call it a good pre-sex safety talk.” Eliot explains, sounding exasperated, but feeling so fond of his impatient boy.

“Okay, but I think I had the pre-sex safety talk when I was about fifteen, Dad.” Quentin grumbles.

“Oh, _baby_ , are you sure you really wanna go there?” Eliot purrs, raking his gaze over Quentin’s body with a hungry glint in his eyes and a self-satisfied smirk curling his mouth.

Oh.

_Oh. Right. The fucking journal._

Quentin stamps down the sudden inferno in his chest as best he can, even though he knows his face must be flaming and there might be steam coming out of his ears and off of the top of his head.

“Plus, I think the pre-sex safety talk you got from your dad was probably focused on pregnancy and STIs. The talk you’re getting from _Daddy_ ,” Quentin sucks in a breath and Eliot nearly smiles at just how _easy_ he is for it. “...is more about how pretty you’ll look when you’re all bound up and covered in my marks and bruises.” Eliot’s voice is deep, sultry, and Quentin actually brings his hands up to rub the heels of them into his eyes. He’s overwhelmed by everything in that sentence and can’t even look at Eliot.

By the time he moves his hands and opens his eyes again, Eliot is sitting patiently, grinning at him.

“You okay over there? You need a little water? Or a time machine?” He jokes. Quentin makes a pinched little face, reaches out and whacks Eliot gently on the arm.

“You’re not playing _fair._ ” The words come out in an honest-to-god whine, and Quentin huffs out a frustrated sigh.

“Of course not, darling. It’s no fun if you don’t cheat the game a little bit.” Eliot is still watching him, but otherwise casual, leaning back into the corner of the small sofa with his legs crossed in front of him. His body was tilted toward Quentin so he could watch all his delicious little reactions, but his hands were demurely folded in his lap.

The incongruity of his calm, sure pose versus the mischief in his eyes and the heat in his voice, and all of his _fucking words_ was getting to Quentin.

“I can’t have this big serious talk with you if you keep fucking with me!” Quentin’s voice is still petulant and Eliot is laughing again.

“I’m not fucking with you. Think of them as previews. Because I’m also not fucking you tonight.” Eliot’s eyes are still glinting. Quentin feels his stomach drop.

“You’re not?” Quentin asks, looking devastated.

“No, baby. Not tonight. You’re all caught up in the rush of exploring all your filthy little secrets, and navigating what you want is already overwhelming enough. So tonight we’re just gonna chat, okay?” Eliot is reassuring and sweet, but Quentin still feels a little disappointed.

“Fine.” Quentin blows out a sigh. “Where do we start?”

“Why don’t you start with what you like about what we already do?” Eliot’s eyes are kind, encouraging.

“El, you already know.” Quentin says, unclear how this was going to make it easier to ask Eliot to please just tie him up and _fuck him_ , already.

“Give me a jumping off point of what makes you feel best. Come on, it’ll be fun.” Eliot grabs one of his hands, laces their fingers together, brushes his thumb over the back of it and settles them on his lap. Quentin watches his thumb, finds that focusing on that instead of Eliot’s intent gaze makes it easier to find words.

“I like how you feel.” Quentin starts, quietly but not whispering. “Warm and strong and safe.”

“Good, that’s a good start. When do you feel like that the most?” Eliot questions, seeming content to just let Quentin focus on where their hands were laced together instead of making him look back up. He’s still watching Quentin’s face, of course, and is delighted to see a small sheepish smile bloom across his mouth.

“Usually not even during the sex. But when we’re kissing. Or touching. When we’re just starting to get into a rhythm of the night, when you lay me back and sprawl out on top of me, and your hands are on my sides or my chest, and you’re just there. Solid and everywhere, and it feels like everything narrows down to just you. And I can see you. Kiss you or watch you laugh.” Quentin gets lost in his train of thought, barely even seeming to realize that he’s said all of that out loud, and Eliot feels a rush of heat and something different. Gentler. 

He’s starting to have second thoughts as to whether it was a good idea to have Quentin start sharing all of this right after he made the announcement that he wouldn’t be fucking him this evening, but under that thought is the thought that Quentin is just so damn sweet. Leave it to him to have a kink streak a mile wide, but for it to just be based on closeness, connection. It was adorable.

“What else, doll?” Eliot encourages him.

“I like when you show me what you want me to do. Or when you move me around and put me where you need me to be. And when you _talk_.” Quentin lets out a shaky little breath at that, but he’s still watching Eliot’s fingers in his and seems to be staying grounded.

“What do you like me to say?” Eliot asks, unsurprised when Quentin looks up and narrows his eyes. He is surprised, however, when Quentin just takes a deep breath and looks back down at their hands.

“I like when you tell me what we’re going to do. When you describe it. And when you just generally _say things._ ” Quentin’s emphasis on the words is not lost on Eliot and he makes an appreciative sound.

“Which is probably the sweetest way that you could say, ‘you were right, Eliot. Nothing makes me harder than when you whisper absolute filth in my ear.’” Eliot brags, smiling at the way Quentin’s hand clenches and then relaxes in his hand. Eliot squeezes back, in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. Keep going. What else do you like me to say to you?”

“I like when you tell me that I did something right. Or when-“ Quentin breaks off, licking his lips nervously.

Eliot makes a soothing noise and decides to step in for just a moment, to take some of the pressure off. He’s pretty sure he knows where this is going.

“Like when I say you’re doing good?” He starts easily, watching Quentin for a reaction. He blinks, but nods. “And when I call you a good boy?” And there’s the reaction Eliot was waiting for, Quentin’s eyes fall closed for a moment, his face regaining that pretty pink blush. Quentin nods again.

“What other things do you like me to call you?” Eliot asks, still calm and soothing.

“You know, just regular stuff. Baby. Stuff like that.” Quentin says, but Eliot has an idea. He stands up, still holding Quentin’s hand, and pulls him up and over to the bed.

“Go ahead, lay down.” Eliot lets go of him and watches confusion bloom across his face.

“El, I thought you said-” Eliot doesn’t give him a chance. 

“I know. We’re not doing anything, you’re just gonna lay down and let me hold you, and we’re gonna keep talking.” Eliot says, gently pushing at his shoulders as he walks him to the edge of the bed.

“Okay?” Quentin climbs up, shimmies across to his side and Eliot has to close his eyes for a second, because he just looks so good lying there. “This just seems abrupt for that whole no sex rule you set.” Quentin’s voice is sharp.

Eliot opens his eyes and chuckles. He turns around and walks towards the dresser, opening the top drawer and pulling out a pair of Quentin’s soft blue pajama pants and a well worn gray tee shirt. He tosses them onto the bed beside Quentin’s legs.

Quentin raises an expectant eyebrow.

“They’re pajamas. You wear them when you’re going to sleep, or in this case, when you get aggressively cuddled by your boyfriend while he makes you tell him what you like in bed.” Eliot smirks down at him, turning back around to pull his own pajamas, gold and white, and very thin.

Quentin rolls his eyes, but stands up and changes as quickly as he can, hoping to get back into bed in time to watch Eliot strip off his party outfit and wiggle into his own pajamas.

Eliot, however, seemed completely aware of Quentin’s plan, so he stood calmly near the dresser, waiting for Quentin to settle back on the bed, staring at him.

Eliot really was going to stick to his no sex promise for the evening, so he didn’t put on the show he really wanted to display. But he took his time, peeling off his waistcoat, undoing the buttons on his shirt, shucking his pants and smiling at Quentin the whole time.

By the time he has slipped into his night clothes and climbed gracefully back into bed, Quentin’s eyes had gone a little glassy from watching.

Eliot snuggles up behind him, his chest pressing against Quentin’s back, an arm thrown over his chest and their legs tangled together. He lays like that for a moment, waiting for Quentin to settle comfortably.

“Where were we?” Eliot asks, smiling even though Quentin can’t see him anymore. “Oh, right. I was figuring out what you want me to call you.”

“I’m gonna list some off, okay? Some that I’ve used before and stuff that I haven’t, and you can just tell me if they’re okay. If you don’t like them, I won’t use them.” Eliot can feel Quentin nodding, his hair brushing against the hollow of Eliot’s throat.

Eliot knows this part will be fun, but Quentin seems to have eased into it a little, surely thinking that something as innocuous as a pet name would be easier than actually describing sex. 

He was going to be wrong, but Eliot starts slow.

“So, we’ve covered ‘baby.’ What about ‘love?’” Eliot asks.

Quentin gives a happy little nod, and Eliot lets the predatory smile he was holding back earlier curl his lips now that Quentin can’t see him.

“Darling?”

Another nod.

“Angel?” This is a new one, but still innocent. Quentin stiffens just a little at the unfamiliarity, then relaxes with another nod, a little smaller and slower.

“Doll?” This one isn’t particularly new, but doesn’t get used quite as often. Quentin is still nodding, relaxing into the rhythm. Eliot can feel the leftover tension about the conversation start melting out of him, so he decides to up the ante.

“Pet?” This one is brand new, had been rattling around in Eliot’s head since he threatened him with it earlier, and Eliot can feel Quentin’s visceral reaction. He tenses under Eliot’s arm, and gives a little shiver. 

“That’s a yes, I take it?” Eliot’s voice is low and amused and Quentin can feel it in the air around him, and gives another tiny nod.

“But that’s not something that you can-” Quentin starts, feeling like he has to clarify.

“No, darling, of course not. That can be just for us. No one needs to know.” Eliot soothes him. “The rest are going to be like that too, okay? You don’t have to worry that I’ll use them when we’re out, or in front of people. These will just be for me. All the things that you can be, just for me.”

Quentin feels a thrill at that idea, that this was a secret that he was keeping for Eliot. He shivers again.

“What?” Eliot questions, and Quentin should have known that wrapped in him like this, he wouldn’t be able to hide any reactions.

“Nothing. You can keep listing the names.” Quentin says, a little dismissively. Eliot pinches his waist.  
“Nope. What are you thinking?” He asks.

“Just about what you said. What I can be...for you.” Quentin’s voice is shaky and Eliot thinks this is going better than he could’ve hoped for.

“What do you want to be for me, pet?” He asks, low and teasing.

Quentin can’t answer right away, too many thoughts crowding his mind. He goes with the first suggestion, figuring that it’s the safest.

“Everything.”

He can feel Eliot’s little laugh against his neck.

“Oh, don’t worry, you will be. What if I wanted to call you something a little less sweet?” Eliot whispers.

Quentin isn’t sure how to react, not knowing what Eliot means. He tries to twist in Eliot’s arms, making a tiny concerned noise in the back of his throat, but Eliot keeps him still, facing forward. He pets down Quentin’s stomach reassuringly.

“No, baby, I’m not gonna be mean to you. But what if I told you what a pretty little slut you are when you beg for me?” Eliot is still whispering in his ear, which is almost as bad as when he was talking in his sultry little purr.

Quentin inhales sharply, not quite a gasp. When Eliot had suggested something “less sweet” Quentin had worried for a moment about what he wanted to say. Now, though, he realizes that he shouldn’t have doubted him. He thinks that this might be the hottest thing that Eliot has ever said.

“You like that?” Eliot asks, still stroking his hand up and down from Quentin’s chest to his stomach over his soft sleep shirt. The motion is meant to be repetitive and soothing, but he can feel Quentin getting restless under him.

Quentin lets out a little whining sigh, almost a moan, and Eliot tightens his arms around him.

“Do you think you’d like it if I called you a sweet little whore? Or if I told you how hot it is that you’re already so desperate for it, how you’re hard and shaking in my arms just from hearing me talk about it?” Eliot is getting hard now too, just listening to Quentin’s shaky breathing and how he whimpers at his words. He’s still not going to fuck him tonight, but this is still fun.

It’s like Quentin could read his mind.

“El, are you sure you’re not gonna fuck me tonight?” Quentin asks, wiggling back against Eliot. The attitude in his voice is there, but slightly undermined by how broken he sounds.

Eliot didn’t let it deter him. He slips his hand under Quentin’s shirt and slides it up his heated skin to a nipple, circling it with one finger, careful not to touch it.

“What if I told you that needy little brats don’t get to come?” He’s not whispering anymore, but is speaking softly, his voice hot in Quentin’s ear and absolutely dripping with measured heat and just a hint of mockery. This is a slight deviation to his original plan, but it’s working _so_ well and Eliot is learning _so_ much.

Judging by the way Quentin arches instantly and actually does moan this time, he’s absolutely on the right track to everything that Quentin wants but isn’t brave enough to ask for.

“Would you like that? I think you would. I think you’d enjoy knowing that desperate slutty boys who try to take more than they’re given have to wait. Sometimes they even have to beg.” Eliot says, still in Quentin’s ear. This gets the biggest reaction yet. Quentin whines loudly and writhes in his arms, trying to both get Eliot’s finger to slip over his nipple, and grind his ass back against Eliot’s hips.

“Eliot,” Quentin has no idea what the end of that sentence was going to be, just knows that he had to say something, he couldn’t stay still. The combination of his husky voice, his breath on the shell of his ear, his finger still circling his nipple but refusing to touch it, and the feeling of his hard cock nestled against his ass, even through their pajamas was getting to be too much for him.

“Yes, love?” Eliot is smiling, Quentin can hear it in his voice, and he fights the urge to gnash his teeth in frustration.

“Come on, I need you to touch me. Do something.” He writhes against him again, frustration clear in his voice.

“I told you what you have to do.” Eliot says simply. He feels Quentin shiver again and waits patiently. Quentin takes a deep breath, his chest rising under Eliot’s hand, and lets it out slowly.

“Please?” Quentin begs, in a tiny whisper.

“That’s not quite enough, darling. Give me a little more. Convince me that you want it.” Eliot says, licking along the side of his neck to bite into the curve where it meets his shoulder.

Quentin makes a sweet shivery little noise that Eliot has never heard before.

“Eliot, please. Please just touch me, please?” Quentin’s face is burning hot, Eliot can feel it where his forehead touched the side of Quentin’s neck, where Eliot is still leaving sharp kisses.

Immediately as Quentin finishes the sentence, Eliot flicks at his nipple with a fingertip, over and over, and tightens his other hand on Quentin’s hip to pull him back to grind against him.

“That’s it. That’s a good boy. I knew you would do it, I knew you would be such a sweet, perfect pet for me. You get so much fight in you, right before you give in. But you just can’t help it, can you? You just want to be made to ask for it, beg for it, that’s why you try to put on such a bratty little attitude. But you’re just so damn eager to please me, aren’t you, little one?” Eliot is still grinding against him, fingers tight enough on his hip to leave marks in the morning. 

Quentin lets out a tortured sounding moan, trembling and pushing back against Eliot. He tosses his head back against Eliot’s shoulder.

“Yes,” He whispers, starting to tense against him. “Please,” He begs again, not knowing what he’s asking for, but it just feels so good to ask. 

Eliot bites at his neck, sucking another little bruise into the skin right above his collarbone, and Quentin whines, loud and shameless this time. 

“Do you like that? Like the idea of wearing my bruises? So that everyone knows that you’re mine? My sweet little pet, so desperate and eager to be touched.” Eliot can feel him still shaking and letting out little whimpering gasps.

“Yours,” Quentin whispers, arching again against his finger, still flicking over his nipple, occasionally giving it a squeeze and making him cry out.

“You’re really getting off on this, aren’t you? I’ve barely touched you, and you’re whining and begging for me. Panting, practically gagging for it, like you might come in my arms, while I tell you what a gorgeous little slut you are for me. Is this what you’ve wanted all along? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this. Wound so tight and shaking, letting yourself be loud and needy. Huh, this is just what you needed, someone to let you get so fucking desperate for them? Someone to take you? You just wanted me to show you that you’re mine, to take what’s mine.” Eliot lets his voice deepen into something akin to a growl. He licks at the shell of Quentin’s ear, takes the lobe in his mouth and bites at it, a little harder than he usually would, squeezing hard at his hip and rolling his nipple between his fingers.

Quentin cries out again, his voice strained and broken as he lets himself be pulled against Eliot’s hips, in a sultry mockery of what Eliot could be doing to him, pushing inside him instead of against him.

“Yeah, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? I told you I knew what you wanted, you just want to be owned. Right, baby? Look at you trembling beside me, grinding your sweet little ass against my cock, even through our clothes. I don’t even have to fuck you to own you, do I?” Eliot is still talking in his ear, his tone harsh, and Quentin’s never heard him talk like that before.

Quentin jerks in his arms at his words, the knowledge that Eliot is right. He does own him, with nothing more than one hand bruising his hip and the other flicking at his nipples and his hot voice in Quentin’s ear.

“That’s it, pet, show me how it feels to be mine. It feels so good, doesn’t it? Hmm, is it good enough to make you come for me? Are you going to come in my arms, in all your clothes, pressed up against me, letting me touch you however I want, like a needy little toy?” Eliot bites at his shoulder again, then licks over it gently, trailing back up his neck to bite at his earlobe again.

“No!” Quentin goes still for a heartbeat, then dissolves into shivers in Eliot’s arms, crying out and rocking his hips back into Eliot. He’s coming, and he can’t believe he was that fucking easy for it, but it might be the best orgasm he’s ever had. He’s still letting out little panting breaths as Eliot pets over his hip, no longer pulling him against him. His own hips finally settle, and his face is burning hot.

“Quentin,” Eliot starts, sounding amazed.

“Hm?” Quentin asks, in a very small voice.

“Did you just come?” His hand that was toying with his nipple is now gently stroking up and down his stomach.

Quentin doesn’t answer, can’t say anything.

“Baby, tell me.” Eliot encourages him, still with that infuriating smile in his voice.

“Yes! Yes, I did. I didn’t realize I was going to, I wasn’t expecting it. But I did, okay?” Quentin’s attitude is back in his voice and his shoulders are a little hunched with his embarrassment. Eliot kisses the curve of his neck, sucking gently until he shivers again and his shoulders start to relax.

“Yes, of course it’s okay. Jesus, if I had known that I could get you to come like that from this, I would’ve done it ages ago.” Eliot says against his neck.

“Wait, really? You’d do that again?” Quentin asks, sounding unsure.

“Of course. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Except I didn’t really get to see it. And I have to. I have to get the chance to get you naked and watch you come apart from just my voice and being made to beg for me.” Eliot is still trying to be reassuring, but it’s difficult because he hasn’t come yet and just talking about it is making him conjure up images of what his face would look like, burning and humiliated, but so satisfied when he’s laying there, covered in his own come, Eliot still fully dressed and just talking to him, watching.

“Eliot!” Quentin whines. “You have got to stop fucking talking!” 

“I can’t believe I didn’t know that I could do this with just my voice.” He laughs delightedly.

“Yeah, well I don’t exactly advertise it.” Quentin tries to sound grumpy, but his voice is thick with satisfaction. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I think it’s hot as hell. And I think you like being a little embarrassed sometimes.” Eliot is still chuckling and Quentin huffs.

“I have to change.” Quentin rolls out from under Eliot’s arms and stands up, resolutely not looking at him as he goes to the dresser for fresh pajamas.

“Quentin, turn around.” Eliot says imperiously, watching him inhale at the order. He lets out his breath and spins, and Eliot nearly has to close his eyes at how fucking _debauched_ he looks, red faced and glassy eyed, an obvious wet spot on his blue pajama pants where he had soaked himself through when he came.

“Was that okay? Did you like it?” Eliot asks.

Quentin stares at the ceiling, but nods.

“Yes. It was incredible.” He says, smiling shyly in spite of himself.

Eliot grins at him.

“Good to know. But this is why we had to talk about it. Technically there’s still more talking to do, because you, my darling, need a safe word.” Eliot knows that Quentin doesn’t have the energy to finish the entire discussion now, but this is important and he doesn’t want to forget.

“But we didn’t even really do anything!” Quentin’s voice is petulant.

“First of all, we did something new, and I called you a lot of new names that you could’ve not liked. Second of all, you told me ‘no’ and I didn’t stop. That was bad BDSM etiquette. Even though you and I both know that you didn’t mean it, you could have, and I wouldn’t have known.” Eliot explains patiently.

Quentin blinks at him. 

“Eliot, I didn’t want you to stop, I just didn’t want to come so quickly.” Quentin says.

“I know. But that’s the whole point. You need to have a way to say ‘no’ if you really need to so that you’re free to say ‘no’ and not mean it if you want to.” Eliot watches patiently as Quentin puzzles out that mess of a sentence in his head.

“Okay. I think I get that. Can I pick one another day? I need to shower.” He grimaces down at himself.

“Of course.” Eliot says, smiling at Quentin’s back as he heads to the bathroom.

When the door closes, Eliot reaches down into his pants, where his erection has slightly flagged, and strokes. Quentin’s hot little whimpers are echoing in his ears, and he revels in the heady feeling of power that came from having Quentin writhing against him while he called him filthy names.

Quentin was always a little shy in bed, but this was incredible. Knowing that he could get Quentin to the point where he was wanton, shameless in what he needed, was so incredibly hot that Eliot is close already, making soft little sounds. He comes picturing Quentin’s fucked out face, the spot on his pajamas after Eliot had made him come harder that he’d ever seen before.

He casts the spell to clean himself up when he catches his breath, then pulls Quentin’s little blue journal out again. It’s the best study material he’s ever had.

He reads for a few more minutes, taking mental notes on everything, until he hears the shower stop. He puts the notebook away, and waits on the bed for Quentin to come out.

When he does, he slips into bed and tucks himself into Eliot’s side, leaning up to put his head on his chest. He tilts his head up, and Eliot kisses him, slow and gentle.

“Thank you.” Quentin says softly against his lips.

“Baby, don’t thank me yet. We’re just getting started with that little notebook of yours.” Eliot kisses him again, a little harder when Quentin makes a soft sound of surprise at his words.

“I almost forgot that was what started this.” Quentin says, pursing his lips.

“Now, now, pet. No pouting. We’ll try something from your book of fantasies soon enough.” Eliot says, chastising, and watches fascinated as Quentin rolls his eyes and blushes again, but has a sweet little smile on his face.

Quentin kisses him one more time, then settles in to sleep next to him. Eliot turns off the light, thinking that he can’t wait to finish his new favorite book.


	2. You and I (We’re An Overnight Sensation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been two weeks since Eliot first found the journal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got nothing. I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> Chapter Title from A Party Song by All Time Low.
> 
> Big big big thanks to Rubick and punkfistfights for beta-ing.

Quentin takes a deep breath, climbing the stairs to Eliot’s attic bedroom very slowly. He’s still nervous, but he doesn’t want to wait any longer.

It had taken him two weeks to gather the courage to ask for the notebook back, and he can’t turn back now, halfway up the creaky stairs. Eliot could fix them with magic if he really wanted to, but he keeps them squeaky for exactly this reason. To let him know when someone might be summoning him.

He gets to the top of the stairs and walks into the room, face flaming immediately. Eliot is lounging in a chair near the window, casually smoking a cigarette in his black silk robe.

“Come for a visit?” Eliot grins at him, and Quentin squares his shoulders, determined not to get distracted.

“Can I have my notebook back?” Quentin asks, a little more harshly than he meant to.

Eliot’s grin widens. 

“Sure, baby. You only ever had to ask. Do you have something new to add?” he asks, completely unfazed by Quentin’s brave little toaster face.

“No!” It comes out as a squeak and Quentin shakes his head at himself, annoyed. He clears his throat. “No, I just want it back. In my room. Where I know where it is.”

“Okay.” Eliot’s tone is too agreeable, making Quentin narrow his eyes at him.

Eliot laughs and Quentin can feel his eyes go squintier.

“So can I have it?” Quentin asks impatiently.

Eliot waves a lazy hand and the notebook wings from Eliot’s desk into Quentin’s hand.

“Thank you,” Quentin says, trying not to huff.

“You’re welcome,” Eliot says, a glint in his eyes. “Come here.”

Quentin doesn’t want to, but he’s helpless when Eliot gives him orders.

He crosses the floor to Eliot’s chair, looking at him expectantly. He thinks for a moment that it’s ridiculous that Eliot is sitting in a fucking chair, and is still only about three inches shorter than he is, standing.

Eliot tilts his face up to him, clearly requesting a kiss, and Quentin leans down and presses their lips together. The kiss is sweet and soft, and Quentin doesn’t think he’s ever had to lean down to kiss him before. Quentin takes advantage, letting his hand settle gently on the side of Eliot’s face.

They break apart and Eliot smiles up at him. Quentin’s stomach flips, he’s caught by the way Eliot is looking at him. His face is relaxed, open and inviting and endearing in a way that Quentin doesn’t think he’s seen before.

“Goodnight, Q,” Eliot whispers.

Quentin brushes another soft kiss on his mouth, then one more on his forehead.

“Goodnight.” Quentin turns and crosses to the stairs, giving Eliot another smile as he starts to descend.

By the time he gets down to the second floor, he feels lighter, his earlier grumpy mood nearly forgotten.

Quentin usually spends most of his nights in Eliot’s bed, only sleeping in his own room when he has an early class or hasn’t been sleeping well. Technically, neither of those were true this time, but he had used the difficulty sleeping excuse in order to buy himself a little bit of time with his stupid little notebook.

He settles at his desk, pen in hand, and opens the notebook, flipping through the pages to find where he left off.

He freezes when he catches sight of unfamiliar pink ink on a page.

What the fuck?

Eliot had left notes. In the margins. Of his dream journal. In pink ink.

Quentin can’t breathe, whatever most recent dream he had been going to write about completely flying out of his head.

He gathers up the notebook, jams his pen behind his ear and storms from the room and back up Eliot’s stupid creaking steps.

When he gets to the top, Eliot is waiting for him, draped across the bed and laughing already.

“What the fuck, Eliot?” He’s out of breath, and can’t even be bothered to wonder if it was the stairs or the anger that did it, although he kind of hopes it was the anger.

“Yes, love?” Eliot asks, perfectly unbothered.

“Don’t. Why would you do that? You spent all that time talking to me and reassuring me and being so sweet to me when you found it, and you kept it just to make fun-”

“Did you read them?” Eliot is watching his face intently, but still has a playful smile on his face that makes Quentin want to scream.

“What?” Quentin had been gathering enough steam for an entire tirade and hadn’t even heard Eliot’s question.

“Did you read them?” Eliot repeats patiently.

“How could I have possibly read them? I left your room less than ten minutes ago. I just saw your stupid pink pen and came back up here.” Quentin is losing steam now, slowly realizing that Eliot isn’t taking the bait, isn’t yelling back.

“Come here, pet,” Eliot says, letting his voice go silky again. Quentin glares at him, but walks stiffly toward the bed.

“Sit down.” 

Quentin winds up to shout again, but Eliot holds up a hand and he stops, instantly. He perches himself on the edge of the bed, unnerved by Eliot’s mischievous eyes on him.

Eliot scooches over, rolling gracefully to lay on his stomach, his head propped up on one hand and the other hand patting the space next to him.

Quentin sighs, but lays down next to him, the notebook still in the crook of his arm.

“What are you doing?” Quentin’s voice is still snarky, and Eliot is still watching him, smiling.

“We’re gonna read my notes together,” Eliot says simply.

Quentin freezes.

“Oh, no. No. Absolutely not.” Quentin can’t say anything more, there are no words in his head, and he knows he should just get up and take his anxious ass and stupid notebook back downstairs to his room.

He doesn’t move.

“Come on, I’ve already read everything you wrote in it. These are _my_ secrets that we’re sharing now.” Eliot reaches under Quentin’s arm, grabs the notebook and flips it open to lay on the bed between them.

He reaches up to Quentin’s face and Quentin thinks that he’s just going to push a rogue lock of hair behind his ear, but he doesn’t. He grabs the pen that Quentin had forgotten that he had put there.

“Is now a good time to point out that you absolutely were about to write down something new?” Eliot asks, laying the pen down beside the notebook and laughing.

Quentin squints his eyes at him again.

“Are you gonna show me your notes or not?” he asks, still annoyed.

“You’ve got a lot of attitude for someone who knows that I’ve read this book from cover to cover,” Eliot says, very casually.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I would’ve noticed,” Quentin mumbles. His words are nearly unintelligible and Eliot’s demeanor changes instantly.

His body goes a little more rigid, a stark contrast from his prior languid attitude.

“Mouthy tonight, aren’t you?” His tone has gone sharp, and Quentin hesitates.

“No, go ahead. Clearly you have something bothering you. Go on.” Eliot is goading him, Quentin knows it.

He doesn’t give in, just looks forward at the stupid notebook.

“All right then,” Eliot says, relaxing back into his casual position on the bed, flipping through a few pages until he finds what he’s looking for. “Here.”

He points at a section of Quentin’s handwriting, then gestures to the opposite page where Eliot had left a few lines in his pink pen.

Quentin starts to read, blushing furiously when he realizes what he’s reading. It’s a section from a particular sex dream, one where Eliot wasn’t Eliot, his boyfriend, anymore. This one had Eliot as a caustic, intimidating, hard-to-impress professor.

It hadn’t necessarily been the typical teacher/student roleplay, hadn’t involved Quentin begging for a better grade or to pass the class. It had been different, nearly impossible to actually execute. Not that Quentin was hoping to actually do it.

Quentin’s fantasy had mostly focused on Eliot, being hot and charismatic and commanding the attention of everyone in the room, as usual. But aside from that, was the notion that Quentin couldn’t stop staring and that Eliot knew it. In the fantasy, Quentin had had to sit quietly at his desk, watching Eliot pay attention to all the other students but him. Eliot had called on him when he knew he was staring at his hands while he showed them how to cast, and Quentin had blushed and hadn’t known the answer to the question.

Of course, like most sex dreams, eventually the class had cleared out and they had begun the actual sex part of the evening.

However, Quentin knew that in that particular case, the draw of the fantasy hadn’t been the physical.

It had been the feeling of Eliot knowing. Knowing Quentin was watching, entranced as he flitted around the room, borderline flirting with everyone in the class except him. Eliot knowing he was dying for it, knowing that Quentin was getting harder and harder at his little desk, watching him, listening to his damn voice as he read passage after passage from their textbooks, describing the intricacies of _sex magic._

It had been the tease, the nervousness, the slight humiliation that came with Eliot’s intent stares and knowing smirks as Quentin just had to sit and slowly lose his goddamn mind.

Once Quentin was done setting the scene in his fantasy, the rest had progressed in a fairly predictable fashion, ending with Quentin bent over the desk, and Eliot occasionally whispering some of the less clinical and more interesting facts he had picked up from the book into Quentin’s ear, like how it would feel to feel the tingle of their magic in the air, joining, pulsing, just as they did.

Quentin didn’t really bother with even reading that part, already feeling too overwhelmed from just remembering how being in that classroom had felt, until he heard Eliot laugh beside him.

“What?” Quentin asked, a surly note in his voice.

“You didn’t even read the note I left, did you?” Eliot is still laughing softly at him.

Quentin realizes suddenly that he hadn’t. He had just reread the fantasy he had written and lost himself in it, not even paying attention to the words scrawled in the pink pen.

Eliot has, with a stupid little heart drawn next to it, written _*told you so,*_

“Told me what?” Quentin asks, with all the petulance of a child who had just been told a joke that he didn’t get.

“I told you that you like to be embarrassed sometimes,” Eliot says, matter-of-fact.

“I never said that!” Quentin is trying not to let the whiny tone show in his voice, but judging by Eliot’s grin, he’s not doing well.

“You didn’t have to,” Eliot says, leaning in to kiss him gently.

Quentin surges forward, immediately taking the kiss deeper, and Eliot lets him for a moment, then pulls back to look at him.

They’re both getting cricks in his neck from turning their heads while they’re lying on their stomachs, and it’s honestly a miracle that Quentin hasn’t flopped onto his back with his head on the notebook and pulled Eliot on top of him.

It’s still a possibility.

Eliot can tell, with his knowing eyes and his stupid smile and Quentin can feel his cheeks heating again.

“I get it,” Eliot drawls, mock wonder in his voice.

“Get what?” Quentin’s voice is quickly going back to sullen. His brain feels like a game of tug of war, split between letting Eliot be sweet and silly with him and his own nonsensical irritation.

“Why you came up here with such an attitude,” Eliot says.

“And why would that be?” Quentin asks disdainfully.

Eliot pulls himself up to kneel on the bed, still next to Quentin, but now with a view of him from his head to his knees, lying on his stomach and making no effort to move to see him.

Eliot smiles to himself and casts.

“What the fuck, Eliot?” Quentin yells for the second time in the night, now gloriously, deliciously naked, and immediately struggling to sit up.

Eliot drops a strong hand to his back, pressing him against the bed, where Quentin leaves his hands flat under his shoulders, still trying to push up against Eliot’s hand.

“Don’t move,” Eliot says, in a tone that sounds sure that Quentin will obey.

He’s right.

Quentin flattens himself down on the bed, sparing a thought to sweep one arm up to close the notebook and slide it under the pillow. He leaves his arms out to his sides and turns his head so his face isn’t mashed into the mattress, and feels Eliot sprawl out over him.

He’s up on his elbows above Quentin’s shoulders, but from the waist down, his body presses against Quentin’s heavily, making Quentin scoff when he realizes he’s still wearing that damn robe, tied tightly at the waist.

Quentin feels Eliot lean down close to his ear.

“One of these days, I’m gonna have you read one of these to me, from beginning to end,” he whispers, and Quentin feels a rush of want, hot and liquid slide through him, slightly tempered with a wave of annoyance. Despite his irritation, his heart starts to race in his chest at Eliot’s words, the idea of having to say all of this out loud to him.

“Are you gonna tell me why I had an attitude when I came up here, or were you just bluffing?” Quentin asks sarcastically.

“Thanks for reminding me,” Eliot says calmly into his ear, moving to put his hands on Quentin’s back and push himself up, pushing Quentin roughly into the bed in the process.

Quentin bites his lip to muffle a whimper that he wasn’t expecting to make, surprised at how strong of an effect that movement had on him. He swears he feels Eliot laugh behind him, but even as he thinks that, Eliot is kneeling beside his hips again, this time facing Quentin’s body instead of the headboard.

Quentin doesn’t move to see what Eliot is doing because he told him not to, but he doesn’t understand the game this time.

Eliot’s still wearing his robe, and possibly underwear beneath it, and kneeling beside him, and Quentin’s lying on his stomach, and he still doesn’t see what Eliot could possibly be planning with them like this-

Wait. 

He has the thought just a second too late as Eliot brings his hand down sharply on Quentin’s ass.

This time there’s no helping the soft little mewling noise that comes out of his mouth, and he knows that Eliot heard him, as he leans down to meet Quentin’s eyes.

“We’re gonna start slow, baby, okay?” Eliot asks him, a note of tenderness in his voice that Quentin wasn’t expecting.

Quentin nods, a sense of relief starting to swirl through him.

Eliot sits back up to how he was before, and works into a rhythm, dropping sharp smacks down onto Quentin’s ass until he’s making shaky sounds and almost rocking back into the motion.

They’re not too hard, just sharp enough for Quentin to feel it, to relish in the feeling of having something hurt, but just enough. 

As he thinks that, Eliot places both of his hands on his ass, kneading and rolling the flesh there, dragging his nails over the pink blush of him until he hisses and shivers.

“Still okay?” Eliot asks, pausing his hands and leaning back enough to be able to see Quentin’s face.

“Mmhm,” Quentin sighs. “I’m good.”

“Okay, darling, brace yourself.” Eliot smiles at him and brings his hand down hard, harder than before, a real spank this time and Quentin jerks underneath him.

He does it again and Quentin isn’t sure what exactly he did to get Eliot to try this with him, but he resolves to do it again. 

It had been a scene in his notebook, sure, but not the teacher one that Eliot had started with. It had been a separate one, with Quentin deliberately acting out, trying to get Eliot so riled up that he just had to splay him out and punish him.

Oh.

Quentin hadn’t really realized it, hadn’t analyzed it, but maybe that was why he had been bitchy, switching quickly from sweet boyfriend to snappish and irritable so quickly.

“Two weeks is an awful long time, isn’t it, little love?” Eliot asks, in a lazy, drawn-out voice that sounds like how one would speak to a toddler. Quentin can’t analyze why that is making him even hotter right now, but he thinks he should maybe worry.

“What?” Quentin asks, unable to really make his brain understand.

“It’s been two whole weeks since I found your book, and while we’ve certainly had sex,” Eliot spanks him again as he says it, his voice completely steady while Quentin whimpers beneath him, “we haven’t really gotten back into the swing of what made you want it to begin with.”

Quentin mumbles something that might be an agreement, but honestly, he feels so calm. His body is still wound up, hot, hard, aching from having Eliot’s hands literally spanking the tension out of him, but it’s a heat he thinks he could settle into, get comfortable. When he thinks about Eliot’s words, difficult with the sticky sweetness flooding his brain, he realizes what Eliot is getting at.

He realizes that Eliot is right, and he feels a vague sense of embarrassment, but it’s nowhere near as nerve-wracking as it felt earlier.

A slight pause, where Eliot does the rubbing thing again, bringing his palms slowly to drag over the marks on Quentin’s ass, now solidly heading away from pink and into harsher red marks.

A deep breath from Quentin, and then Eliot’s hand smacks down hard again, making Quentin jump and whine from the fiery sting, instantly followed by a hot rush of pleasure.

“I told you last time, didn’t I?” Eliot starts, barely giving him any time to recover before the next blow lands. “You get so much fight in you, before you just need to be bossed around or manhandled a little.”

Eliot makes a mocking little tsk-tsk-tsk sound that makes Quentin shiver, just before he gets a sixth spank, hard enough to make his eyes water and his teeth clench.

Eliot lets his other hand ruffle Quentin’s hair, and stroke gently down his spine, and Quentin starts to arch into it before realizing that Eliot hadn’t told him to move yet and settling back down.

“Good boy, baby, that was so good,” Eliot praises, smiling at Quentin’s happy little wiggle. He takes a moment before spanking him again, just as hard, and Quentin makes another soft whimpering sound.

“But you know what would be better?” Eliot asks, with that practiced gentle mockery that never fails to turn Quentin on even while it makes him feel flustered and hot.

Quentin makes a questioning sound, clearly too far gone to really make words, but seemingly still too entranced by Eliot’s voice to really block him out.

“It would be better if you just asked me, pet,” Eliot says, landing another blow as he strokes at Quentin’s back again.

Quentin makes a choked little sound, and Eliot chuckles at the thought that it could be at the spanking but was more likely at his words.

“Huh, you got a little taste of what it would be like, didn’t you? How it would be to give yourself over and let me be in charge? You got greedy.” Eliot asks, and this time his voice is a little sharper, like earlier, and the heat in it is overwhelming.

Eliot spanks him again, delighting in the way Quentin thrashes and then stills himself.

“It wasn’t enough, was it, baby? Now that you’ve had it, you want it all the time, don’t you? So you came up here with a nasty little attitude, just begging me to take over, to take care of you,” Eliot says soothingly, petting his hair and back again.

Quentin moans unintelligibly, but Eliot doesn’t need his words right now, the way his body is squirming, restless beside him, tells him everything he needs to know.

“You’re doing so good for me, pet, so sweet and pliant. Last one, baby, okay?” Eliot asks, watching Quentin nod slowly, his face still red against his sheets.

Eliot lands the last blow on his ass, now beautifully red against the pale of his hand and Quentin lets out a little wail.

Eliot lays down next to him and gathers him in his arms, pulling him sideways to rest his head on his chest and to pet soothingly up and down his back.

“That was fantastic, sweetheart, you took everything I gave you so well. And your body looked so pretty while I did it,” Eliot tells him, kissing softly at his hair, his forehead, his cheeks.

Quentin takes a deep breath and lets out a sweet little pleased sound, nuzzling at Eliot’s chest in reaction to his praise, unable to talk just yet.

“Shhh, darling, you’re okay. We’re just gonna sit here for a few minutes, and you can just relax.”

Quentin melts into his chest and shoulder, tossing one of his legs over Eliot’s in a rather floppy manner. He’s tilted into Eliot’s side, and he’s vaguely aware of his erection pressed into Eliot’s hip, but it doesn’t feel like something that needs to be taken care of immediately.

Eliot smiles against his hairline, muttering sweetly when Quentin brings a hand up to brush his hand softly over the patch of hair on Eliot’s chest.

They stay like that, wrapped together, for close to twenty minutes, until Quentin starts to move again, placing a few kisses against Eliot’s chest.

“You okay, baby?” Eliot asks gently, bringing a finger under Quentin’s chin to tilt his head back and look at him.

Quentin’s eyes are focused again, but still a little bit glassy. He blinks up at Eliot.

“Oh my god,” Quentin says, blushing again as he realizes what just happened. He doesn’t have the energy to skitter away from Eliot like he might have done at any other time, but he also doesn’t really want to.

He feels lax, calm, quiet, for the first time since that night where they had first discussed any of this.

“Yeah,” Quentin answers thickly. “Yeah, El. I’m good. I’m so good. You’re so good. How’d you get so good?”

Eliot laughs at his mumbling, how his voice still sounds a little dazed.

Eliot leans down and kisses him, licking into his mouth. The kiss is long and slow and dirty, and Quentin kisses back languidly, caught in the motion of the hot slide of Eliot’s mouth.

Eliot pulls back and gives him a wolfish smile, and Quentin grins back, lazy and unashamed.

“Was I right? Did you come up here with your little mini tantrum to get me to do that?” Eliot questions.

“I didn’t know you were going to _do that_.” Quentin says, a saucy tone to his voice that Eliot has never heard. “But I might have been trying to get you to _do something_.”

Eliot kisses him again, hot and slick.

“I knew it.” He smiles against Quentin’s mouth, pulls back to look at him some more. “So how are you feeling?”

Quentin blinks at him for a moment, considering.

“Calm. Relaxed. Still horny,” Quentin says, giving his own version of Eliot’s devilish smile back to him as he watches Eliot’s eyes widen for just a moment.

“A good spanking really loosens you up, doesn’t it, Coldwater?” Eliot teases. He is surprised that Quentin managed to say that, admit it out loud while looking Eliot in the face. He loves flustered, scandalized, strait-laced Quentin, but this is a side of subby, freshly disciplined Quentin that he has never seen before.

“I guess so. I didn’t know before now. I should’ve pissed you off months ago,” Quentin jokes, and Eliot rewards him with a hand sliding down his back and then running his nails over his sensitive ass.

Quentin shivers in his arms and turns his head into the hollow of Eliot’s throat, nipping there, feeling drunk with his newfound shamelessness and bravery.

Eliot scratches his nails a little harder over his reddened skin and Quentin shudders in his arms, pulling back from his neck and looking up into his face.

“Fine, fine, I give,” Quentin whines at him.

“I knew you would,” Eliot says, and he flattens his hand, no longer using his nails, but still dragging his hand over the heat under Quentin’s skin, watching his eyes flutter closed as he lets out a breathy little sound.

“So, was I imagining it, or did you say you were still horny?” Eliot asks, watching as Quentin struggles to open his eyes as Eliot still strokes at him.

Quentin gives up trying to look at him and instead shifts his hips forward to press his cock against Eliot’s hip bone, attempting to be teasing.

He moans loudly at the unexpected feeling of Eliot’s silk robe sliding against his skin, and stops himself, chagrined.

Eliot chuckles at him, looking down the line of his own body to see Quentin’s dick, hard and leaking up against him. “That didn’t work out the way you thought it would, now did it?”

Quentin, getting a gentle sense of his perpetual embarrassment back, flushes, and tries to keep himself from rocking forward again.

“Nope. That’s a brilliant idea, baby,” Eliot says, sitting up against his mountain of pillows and pulling Quentin up and settling him high up over his thigh, straddling it.

Quentin goes still and looks down at himself, stunned for a moment at the view of his thighs framing one of Eliot’s, even if it is still covered by all that soft black silk. Not to mention the way his dick looks. Quentin isn’t usually one to view himself in any sort of complimentary way, but even he has to admit that his cock, twitching and leaking, looks like something even he might jerk off to, if it weren’t his own.

“Come on, lean up for me,” Eliot tells him, placing a hand on the small of Quentin’s back, pushing him forward so that he presses up against the top of his thigh and into his hipbone.

Quentin lets out a gasping little sigh, but doesn’t move further, prompting Eliot to flex his leg and start to bring his knee up a little, rocking Quentin against him.

“Baby, you’re gonna ride me. Not my dick. Just like this. You’re gonna ride my thigh and rock yourself against my hip,” Eliot says in his ear, no doubt in his voice.

Quentin looks at him with a shocked expression.

“You can do it, pet. I know you can. If you can be brave enough to take a spanking like that and still manage to be bratty afterwards, you can give me a little show.”

Quentin narrows his eyes at him and Eliot flexes his leg again. Quentin whines at the motion, and rocks his hips experimentally. The friction on his cock is fantastic, but every little jerk of his hips comes at a price, ass still stinging every time he moves.

“That’s a good boy, Quentin,” Eliot says as Quentin shudders and does it again, starting to find a rhythm.

Eliot leans down to mouth at his neck, smiling against his skin when Quentin’s rhythm falters for a moment.

He bites at the soft skin of Quentin’s neck, leaving sore little marks in his wake as Quentin starts to really grind against him, making these hot little keening sounds when he finds a particularly good angle, his cock pushing against Eliot’s hip.

Eliot reaches down with the hand that isn’t pressing Quentin against him and unties his robe, pushing one side down over his other hip to wrap a hand around his own cock, jerking himself in time to Quentin’s pace on top of him.

Quentin realizes what Eliot is doing and looks down, mesmerized by the sight of Eliot’s hand, working himself over. Quentin moans at the sight, pressing himself harder against Eliot, tilting his head a little to let Eliot kiss his way up his neck to his jaw. He nibbles along his jawline, and moves up to Quentin’s ear, nipping at his earlobe and making these breathy panting sounds.

Quentin tosses his head back, shuddering at the feel and the sound of Eliot in his ear. He’s close, he can feel it, but he doesn’t want to give in this easily, he wants Eliot to come first for once. 

Quentin presses his lips to Eliot’s neck this time, biting sharply again, sucking against his skin, leaving his own angry purple mark.

It’s only fair; Quentin’s ass is going to be red for days.

Eliot moans, and moves his hand faster, still panting in Quentin’s ear, but the sound is shaky now, catching Eliot’s breath in his chest occasionally.

Quentin isn’t gonna last much longer, but he’s determined to wait, to feel Eliot tremble underneath him and hear that tremulous groan that he makes when he comes before he lets himself go.

He tilts his head up to whisper into Eliot’s ear.

“Please?” he asks, in a soft little whimper. He asks partially because he knows that Eliot loves to hear him beg, and partially because he knew Eliot would think he was asking to be allowed to come, not that he was asking Eliot to come.

“Yes, pet, go ahead. Come for me,” Eliot says, and Quentin whines again, holding on just a little longer as Eliot strokes himself a few more times, then shudders and moans. The first hot drops of Eliot’s come landing on his stomach are what sends Quentin over the edge. 

He comes, nearly shouting with the force of it, and every time Eliot covers a little bit more of Quentin’s chest and stomach with himself, Quentin whimpers and trembles as the orgasm rocks through him. He’s never really understood the concept of an orgasm so good that he saw stars until he met Eliot. Now, however, he sees stars, his blood thunders in his ears, and he wonders if every orgasm after a spanking would feel like this.

It lasts forever, but eventually Quentin slumps against Eliot’s chest, with his legs still splayed over one of Eliot’s. Quentin is making satisfied little noises and not caring about the mess between them.

A few moments later, he realizes that the leg and hip that he had been riding have still had the robe draped over them, and that he had definitely made a mess of them.

“Oh...oops. I’m, uh, sorry about your robe,” Quentin mumbles, as he catches his breath.

“I should spank you again for apologizing,” Eliot says, pulling his head up gently by the hair for another kiss.

It’s messy and slow, a little uncoordinated with how sated they are, and Eliot brings his other hand up from where it was lying on his stomach. He goes to put it on Quentin’s cheek, then thinks better of it when he realizes that it is still slick with his own come. 

Quentin pulls back from the kiss, looking at the hand that Eliot hasn’t dropped yet, and meets his eyes with a little smile.

The smile is sheepish but Quentin’s eyes are still hot as he turns his head and laps at Eliot’s fingers, cleaning them thoroughly.

“Fuck,” Eliot croaks out, and Quentin’s smile grows.

Eliot takes the hand from Quentin’s hair and strokes down his back again to push at his lower back, shifting the thigh under him until Quentin moans softly at the slide of his robe against his over sensitive skin.

“No fair,” Quentin whimpers, pouting his lips at Eliot.

“I know.” Eliot grins at him again.

Eliot reaches up and gathers Quentin into his arms and flops him over onto his side. Quentin nuzzles against his chest with his face, keeping their bodies apart until Eliot brings his hands up to cast to clean them up.

“Sorry I threw a tantrum,” Quentin says in a small voice.

“Quentin, we should work on you asking for what you want, but I’ve gotta be honest. If you really want to just be a little brat because you’re hoping it ends with something like this, I’m not entirely opposed to that idea. I’m sure there’s lots of ways that we can play this. Although one of these days it’s not gonna end how you want it to, and maybe you’ll rethink that little plan,” Eliot says, petting his hair.

“How would it end?” Quentin can’t help but ask, even though he knows he’s probably better off not knowing.

“Depends on how I’m feeling. Maybe I’d edge you for a few hours. Maybe I’d tie you up and stand over you, jerking myself off until I come all over your sweet little body, then untying you and sending you to the shower to get all cleaned up, and then just send you to bed. Who knows?” Eliot says, smiling when he feels Quentin’s shoulders tense up against him.

“Jesus, El,” Quentin whispers.

Eliot laughs.

“It’s okay, Q, you don’t have to worry about it now. Just maybe a little extra incentive for the next time you think that brattiness will get you where you want to go.” Eliot drops a kiss into his hair.

“For now, though, we can get some rest.” Eliot uses magic to turn the lights off, since neither of them can fathom getting up to do it.

Quentin kisses at Eliot’s chest as he fumbles with his feet at the bottom of the bed to bring the blanket up to cover them.

“I love you, El,” Quentin says, almost to himself, in the dark of their room.

“I love you too, pet,” Eliot says, snuggling him closer and closing his eyes.


End file.
